Pages

Abduction

Abduction of the Scots Queen

Setting out to capture the infant Queen of Scots and bring her to England to marry King Henry's son, Matho Spirston falls foul of the king's niece, Meg Douglas. Her trickery forces him to use hitherto unsuspected wits in order to survive in the brutal world of sixteenth century political intrigue.Marie de Guise, the recently widowed Scots Queen, hears rumours of impending danger and anxiously watches over her only surviving child in Stirling, the strongest castle in Scotland, as the year turns toward winter in 1543.This is Book 1 of a trilogy: an introduction to Matho and the complex world of sixteenth century politics that threaten to spoil his plans at every opportunity.

Some of the Characters who take part in
the story:

The English:

*Matho
Spirston

*Harry
Wharton

Sir
Thomas Wharton

Ralph Sadler, English Ambassador in Scotland

Lady
Margaret Douglas, half English, half Scots

The Scots:

Marie de Guise, widow of James V of Scotland and Dowager Queen
of Scotland

Marie
Stewart, their daughter, Queen of Scots, aged ten months

*Jonet
Dean, maid to Meg Douglas

Archibald
Douglas, 6th Earl of Angus, Meg’s father

Margaret
Maxwell, his third wife

Sir
George Douglas, his brother

Mathew
Stewart, 4th Earl of Lennox

Patrick
Hepburn, 3rdEarl of Bothwell

David
Beton, Cardinal and Archbishop of St Andrews

James
Hamilton, 2nd Earl of Arran

Will Cunningham, 4th Earl of Glencairn, nephew of
Archibald Douglas

Robert Maxwell, 5th Earl of Maxwell

Hugh Somerville, 4th Lord Somerville

*Fictitious characters

Chapter One

‘You
remember the Treaty of Greenwich?’ Harry demanded.

‘Aye,’ Matho replied. ‘It’s the treaty the
Scots signed back in July. The one that says Queen Mary will marry Henry’s son
when she’s ten years old.’ His upper lip lifted in a brief sneer. ‘If ye ask
me, it’ll never happen.’

Harry’s sigh smacked of resignation. ‘You’re
right. Henry doesn’t want to wait. He wants the children to marry now.’

‘There’s nee way the Queen Dowager of Scotland
will agree to that.’

‘She doesn’t know yet. Very few do.’ The third
man in the chamber, Sir Thomas Wharton, Deputy Warden of the English West March
and Harry’s father, sat behind a stout wooden table littered with ledgers,
leather satchels and papers backed up and overflowing two pewter inkwells. Six
fat candles in a holder stood at his elbow and lit his tough, craggy face and
silver hair.

Matho guessed what was coming next. ‘The king
fears a Catholic army is about to land in Scotland, doesn’t he?’

The taverns had been full of the Holy Roman
Emperor’s threat to invade England and return the population to Catholic ways. Matho
waited for Sir Thomas’s reply, but it was Harry who spoke. ‘If they land at
Leith it’s only a three-day march south into England. Henry cannot permit
that.’

‘So he thinks if he marries his son to the
little Queen,’ Matho said, ‘he can rule Scotland in their names and close the
ports to any foreign invasion.’

Harry nodded.

Sir Thomas sat forward in his carved chair, placed
his palms carefully together and surveyed Matho and his son over steepled
fingers. ‘Unfortunately, the king goes beyond diplomacy in this. He demands we
snatch the little Queen with all haste. If stealth fails, I am authorised to
take her by force.’

‘What?’ Shocked unease
churned Matho’s stomach. ‘We know where that will lead.’ War was all too common
in the borderlands between England and Scotland. His sympathy lay with the poor
folk, constantly overrun by opposing armies, their crops trampled underfoot,
livestock stolen and stores raided to feed men and horses. They received little
in the way of recompense. The last decade had seen many families starve to
death during the warfare between Scotland and England.

‘The king has let it be known he will reward
any man who brings the little Queen to him,’ Wharton continued. ‘I fear Harry
considers it his opportunity for advancement.’

‘So I suggested,’ Harry said, a wide grin
lighting his face, ‘that you and I will bring her south.’

Jesu! Matho’s innards spasmed. He gaped at them
both in turn and then turned to Harry. ‘Do you want to get us both killed?’ he said. ‘That’s what it will mean if
we meddle in this.’

‘But if we succeed,’ Harry said in the patient
tones of a schoolmaster with a dullard, ‘the king will be delighted and
therefore generous with his reward. There will be enough for you and me, and
Father will be the man of the hour once more.’

Matho scowled. It wouldn’t be Harry’s father
risking his neck in Scotland. ‘But she’s nowt but a bairn,’ he blurted. ‘She
won’t be off the teat yet.’

Harry snorted with laughter. Heat rose under Matho’s
collar. Wharton’s bent head suggested he hid a smile. Damn them both, Matho
thought. He wasn’t going to get himself killed in order to please either of
them. He ought to walk out of here now, while he still had a head on his
shoulders.

He opened his mouth to protest,
and then paused. He’d borrowed a horse from Harry to ride west expecting
nothing more lucrative than messenger work, which was hard on the backside but
not particularly dangerous. Wharton’s summons had freed him from duties as Carnaby’s
guard for the whole of one month; now he saw that the way had been prepared for
this venture. Matho shifted from foot to foot. He’d been hoping for a chance to
prove himself since going into service with the Carnaby family. What if this
was it? He’d be a fool to back away from it. Lord knows he was tired of living
on bread and ale.

‘What is she?’ he asked, anxious
to retrieve lost ground. ‘Almost a year old? I suppose she can survive on
pottage for a day or two, like the rest of us.’

Harry’s eyes lit up. ‘Then you’ll give it a
go?’

Matho regarded him with a sour glance. That was
Harry for you. Offer him a handful of grain and he would assume he could take
the entire sack. ‘There must be safer ways of earning gold.’

Harry dragged off his cap and flipped the green
velvet across the room to land with a soft thud on the hutch table against the
wall. ‘To be blunt, Matho, it’s been almost a year since Solway Moss, and the
king’s grip on the purse strings is tighter than ever.’

Everyone knew Henry Tudor was tight-fisted. It
sounded as if Wharton had received nothing for routing the Scots when they
tried to invade England last November. Looking at the man’s pained expression
Matho guessed he would have preferred to keep his money problems under wraps
and out of sight at the back of the beer cellar. It was Matho’s turn to smile. ‘Sounds
to me like there’s little hope we’d get the reward even if we did bring her south.’

Harry groaned. ‘Matho, Matho.’

‘I think a cup of ale is required, Harry,’
Wharton’s gruff voice silenced whatever Harry had been about to add. ‘Take a
seat, Spirston.’

Matho pressed his old, hand-me-down sword flat
against his thigh and approached the stools before the oak table that stood
like a challenge across the chamber. Pewter chinked cheerily behind him. He
took the mug Harry offered, and sipped. The drink sweet and freshly brewed. He
took a deeper draught.

Matho snorted in amusement, and Harry, with an
air of martyred resignation, abandoned his perch and used his foot to hook a stool
toward him. For Matho, the day had taken on an air of unreality. Unimpressed by
the faded tapestry of some Biblical scene on the wall behind Sir Thomas, he
looked round for something that would convince him that he really was proposing
to go north and abduct the little Queen of Scots. Sunlight through a high round
window on his left illuminated a map of the north of England gracing the
opposite wall. Coloured inks marked towns and the routes between them. He soon
found Corbridge on the River Tyne and wondered if the tiny dot to the north
might indicate Aydon.

‘Much as it pains me to admit the state of my
finances, my son has the truth of it.’ Wharton’s sideways glance suggested Harry
would receive a telling off at some later date. ‘We all need gold. But his
brave offer is risky. No.’ He held up his hand as Harry opened his mouth. ‘Life
in King Henry’s courts is no recommendation for the sort of action you
envisage.’

Harry made a sound of disgust, slouched lower
in his chair and stared at his boots. Matho waited, puzzled. He’d almost persuaded
himself that the idea of going north was a good one, and now it looked as if Wharton
was going to veto it.

‘The venture has distinct possibilities,’
Wharton continued. ‘But there is certainly danger attached to it. Spirston, how
would you gauge your chances?’

Affronted, Harry surged upright. ‘Why ask him?
His position as Carnaby’s Guard Captain is hardly the pinnacle of military
success.’

A jibe from Harry was rare, and stung all the
harder for that.

‘Aye,’ Matho retorted. ‘But there’s a trick or
two to handling yersel’ wi’ men and weapons. Ye need a steady nerve to stand
guard duty through the winter nights an’ it doesna come from dancing wi’ court
ladies.’ He caught his anger and speech at the same time. ‘How do I rate our
chances, sir? About the same as a duckling chased by a fox.’

‘Thanks for the support.’ Harry sank his chin
on his chest and folded his arms.

Matho glanced at him and regretted his harsh
words. Wharton was no foppish lord in lace and satin, but a commander in the
roughest area in the country. The man sent his reports direct to the King of
England. The stiff leather jack of every Border male hung on a peg but a stride
away, and the tip of a serviceable sword scabbard showed below it. Putting
Harry down in front of his father had been unkind, and hardly the action of a
friend.

Unless he redeemed himself quickly, the cold
bath in the river and the money he’d spent on a decent haircut to impress Sir
Thomas had been for nothing. He’d thrown it all away with one careless
sentence. He shifted on his stool. ‘Aye, well, how hard can it be to capture a
queen? Not much worse than plucking a daft girl from a gang of reivers.’

As Wharton well knew, Matho had saved Harry’s
life while rescuing Alina Carnaby this summer, and the girl was now Harry’s
wife. The adventure had brought them together and sealed their friendship. Harry
acknowledged the words with a slow smile, and then turned to his father. ‘I
think you should allow us to make the attempt, sir. Matho and I work well
together.’

Harry’s generosity shamed Matho. He offered him
a lop-sided smile.

Wharton surveyed them, his pale eyes sharp and
bright under grey brows, and appeared to come to a decision. ‘I would remind
you that this is no local affair. You will be in a foreign country, and subject
to their laws. I will not be able to help you.’ His fingers beat a soft tattoo
on the sheet of paper beneath his hand.

‘We understand that,’ Harry said.

The silence grew. Matho noted the cracked red
sealing wax spattered about Wharton’s correspondence. Sir Thomas had ripped open
a letter instead of employing his paper-knife. When he rapped his knuckles on
the table, wax fragments leapt about the papers. ‘I hoped the king would see
reason. Such harsh measures as these will make your task more difficult.’ Wharton
shook his head and pushed his papers to one side. ‘However, we must deal with
the hand we have been given. It is the first week of October. If you two are to
attempt this, you must set off today. I estimate you have two weeks before
Scotland and England will be on a war footing.’

Harry’s face lit with energy. ‘In three days,
we can be in Stirling.’

The companionable hiss and whine of the fire
filled the sudden silence. Matho’s stomach rippled with unease, but he knew he
would do well to copy Harry’s example. Show any hint of doubt, and his big
chance would vanish.

Already Harry curled his lip and shot a
narrow-eyed glance at him. Matho could guess his thought: For God’s sake,
Matho, show you’re interested. Help me convince him we can do it.

Matho cleared his throat, shuffled his feet and
looked at Sir Thomas. ‘We’ll need paperwork. Passes that’ll get us into places
like Edinburgh. And information. Where they keep the queen, and who guards her.
That kind of thing.’

Harry turned back to his father. ‘Plus
expenses, of course.’

Wharton nodded. ‘Passes I can supply, plus a
letter of introduction to Ralph Sadler. He was sent north in the spring as
England’s ambassador in Scotland. If anyone knows the situation there, he will.
As for information, I can tell you what I know.’ His hand strayed to the
ledgers beside him. ‘But first, let me find Sadler’s direction.’

It seemed they were going north after all. Unsure
of his feelings, Matho distracted himself by reading the spines on the ledgers
stacked on Wharton’s table. Correspondence,
Accounts, Receipts. Leather satchels hung from wall pegs beside the
latticed window overlooking the Outer Ward and he knew they were used by
accredited messengers. Sunlight caught the painted metal badges on the leather
flap and made them glow. Wharton seized a quill, scrawled a few words on a slip
of paper and handed it to Harry. ‘You began service with Sir Reynold Carnaby at
Aydon, I think, Spirston?’

Matho jumped at the question. ‘Aye, as Captain
of his guard, sir. Since his death this summer, I serve his brother, Cuthbert.
In the same capacity.’

It sounded grand, but Wharton would know the
reality of his post. Aydon Township was nothing more than a dismal clutch of
cots and cabins that housed the folk who served the Carnaby family. Matho had
squabbled and fought his way to undisputed leadership of the rough gang of
children who played in the hay barns and farm yards until his father had taken
him, aged fourteen, to Sir Reynold.

The same dart of eagerness and uncertainty he
had experienced that day eight years ago pricked him now. He wanted to see more
of life and new places, and what better way to do it than at King Henry’s
expense? Nothing held him back. His father had died six years ago, his mother
this last spring. There were no siblings to protect, no girls who expected
anything of him. Had he not promised his mother he would make something of
himself? And she had known better than he, that he would not do it by sitting
at home telling his beads.

‘I take it you two appreciate the unhappy state
of Scotland since the defeat at Solway Moss?’ The gruff voice cut across
Matho’s thoughts. ‘The country is riven by factions of one kind or another. The
whole country,’ Wharton went on, ‘is a miserable midden of frustrated men who
think any one of them could fill the rôle of monarch better than a woman.
Regent Arran, the Queen Dowager and Cardinal Beton favour an alliance with
France rather than England.’

Matho grimaced. ‘The Scots always favour France.
Then they wonder why we hammer them into the ground.’

Jesu! He’d said it aloud. Alarmed, he waited
for a rebuke.

‘Quite. Since we number five times Scotland’s manpower,
it beggars belief that they continually wage war against us.’

‘Well, at least the Assured Lords are on our
side,’ Harry said cheerfully.

Matho knew that reference, too. Imprisoned Scots
lords taken at Solway Moss had gained their freedom by a simple oath of
agreement to promote the marriage between Mary Stewart and Henry’s son, Edward.
Matho was in no doubt about what they would do. ‘Once across the border,
they’ll not hold to their pledge.’

‘If I understand the Scottish lords,’ Wharton
replied, ‘they’ll do only as much as turns a profit for them. Henry’s greatest
hope is Archibald Douglas, the Earl of Angus. He went north in January and
reports he has done much to persuade Scots lords to aid England. Personally, I
beg leave to doubt him.’

A line of silver acorns graced the front of
Wharton’s grey doublet. They winked in the firelight and held Matho’s attention
as the man delivered information in concise, orderly chunks. By the time he
stopped speaking Matho was convinced the Scottish lords were as shifty as the
traders at the quayside market in Newcastle.

Wharton hesitated and then drew in a breath so
deep all the acorns stood to attention.

‘Spirston, you’ve dealt with forays of Scots
across the fells to steal a few cattle and sheep. You know men don’t always
return from a raid or a trod. This persuades me the pair of you may have a
chance of success. But don’t take this task lightly, either of you.’ He cast a
warning glance at his son. ‘It could cost you your lives.’

‘Aye.’ On a wave of confidence, Matho flicked
his fingers against Harry’s green velvet sleeve. ‘You’d best get out of those
fancy duds, Harry. They’ll give you away in a trice. Splurge some money on a
less gaudy set of clothes, man.’

‘Quite.’ Humour lit Wharton’s eyes. ‘I dare say
Harry will be loath to shed his favourite boots. He is ever light-hearted about
too many things, Spirston. I’m relying on you to talk sense into him.’

Matho’s glance fell to the boots in question.
While he had never begrudged Harry his expensive clothes, his time at court nor
his chantry school education, he stared at the fine brown leather boots with
red, turn-down cuffs embossed with tiny gold flowers, and promised himself he
would own a similar pair before the year turned. Either that or he wouldn’t be
worrying about boots at all.

No comments:

About Jen

I write historical romances and historical novels variously set in Scotland, Dublin or the north of England where I have lived all my life. With so many wonderful periods of history to choose from I don't stick to one; from Vikings to Victorians, I love them all!

I'm rarely without a camera in my pocket and delight in displaying the pics on my blog. The beautiful Tyne Valley around Hexham features heavily, as do my holiday haunts and I can't ignore my beautifu Dalnatian dog, Tim.